


Fleeting Perfection

by animehead



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren has a bit of time to reflect on himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> I had to get this one out of my system.

The room is a mess.

Another one of his fits of frustration and uncontrolled rage. He should probably have someone clean it, he thinks, momentarily distracted by the chaos around him. But it doesn’t matter how much he destroys his surroundings. They’re all material possessions, easily replaceable. And even if they weren’t, he’s certain he can live without them. He doesn’t truly need anything, or anyone for that matter.

_Although, perhaps…_

No.

Even that, he reluctantly decides, he can handle on his own…

He’d been so pleased with himself a mere hour ago. How exhilarating it had been to control him, to read his mind, invade his thoughts. He could have made him do anything, whatever he desired. But he’d dismissed him, sent him out of his room, and out of his sight. It wasn’t him, he wanted, after all.

Just the affirmation that he was indeed able to control him.

If he doesn’t think about anything after that moment, the status reports, the annoying updates that—for the moment—are beyond his control, he can focus back on that moment. That brief, beautiful moment of unwavering control, of complete and utter power. The rush of excitement that swelled inside him, that consumed him.

That intoxicating intensity.

That dynamic… _force_.

Though the bedding below him is lush and comfortable, Kylo doesn’t deem it truly ideal for someone of his prestige. He deserves better, something a bit more exquisite. Falling onto his back, Kylo allows himself to relive that moment, to feel the swift pounding of his heart within his chest. For that one brief moment, he relieved himself of all doubts of his abilities. For those few fleeting seconds, he’d been _perfect_.

Perfection is, Kylo thinks, as his gloved hand glides along black fabric, is rather complicated to obtain. Though he supposes that isn’t always a bad thing. If it was too easy, he doubted he would appreciate it as much. Things that were complicated indeed had their advantages in the end. Even his attire, which was admittedly complicated at times—now being one of them—would offer a well-deserved payout once he was able to get his pants unfastened.

It’s juvenile to glance at the door to make sure no one would intrude on him during such a private, intimate moment with himself. The others were usually reluctant to disturb him, especially when he was in the confines of his room.  He was no longer an adolescent, hiding under blankets, exploring his body and praying that his parents wouldn’t chance upon his indiscretions. That part of him, and the life that once was had been killed.

And he, the murderer.

Kylo pretends not to hear the steady sounds of his own heavy breaths panted out within the quietness of the room. He closes his eyes, his head pressing firmly against the cushion, dark hair splayed messily around his face.

The thought that he hasn’t overcome the primal urge to pleasure himself is annoying, but he can’t help but moan when leather glides along his sensitive cock. Still fully dressed, he can’t lose himself the way he wants to, the way he _deserves_ to. But his hand still rises and falls along his cock, gripping and tugging, while his toes curl within his boots.

Maybe, he thinks, as his free hand rests against his mouth, white teeth digging into the black leather tips of his fingers, it wouldn’t be completely horrible to have someone else touch him like this. Someone to swipe their thumb across the tip of his cock, press against the slit, palm the head with precise strokes of their hand… Maybe if they looked up at him from their kneeling position on the ground in front of him with hopeful, pleading eyes and trembling lips, maybe if they were desperate for it, maybe if they begged him, then maybe, _just maybe_ , he’d come—and come apart—for them.

His tongue tastes like leather when he bites down onto his fist, leaving saliva and teeth impressions in his glove. His muscles tense, hips stiffening as he pumps his cock, smothering his moans against his hand as his impending orgasm makes itself known through small, though numerous, electric pulses swirling throughout his body.

He cries out softly, almost silently, unperturbed by the splatter of thick come that clings to his gloves as he continues to stroke himself, his body jerking at the sensation, coming harshly and helplessly into his fist. Even when he has nothing left, he continues, rubbing himself until his cock falls soft and limp, the sensitivity of his own touch causing him to whimper and gasp.

When he can no longer stand the sensation, he pulls his hand away and stares at the mess he made of it with a frown. One day he wouldn’t have to deal with this desire, this… _need_.

And with the slightest roll of his eyes, he decides that, yes. That would be just fucking perfect.


End file.
